No clinging to the pillow in the morning.  The unreasonable terror of a new day.  It’s okay, gas is low in the car, no problem, fill it up please.  Looks like a snow sky: wonderful, can sleep late, and isn’t the pristine white mantle of the virgin snow a sight of wonder and joy?  One day.  Ouch, somebody is in need of a new prescription: will it be the weekly food shopping what needs to be picturesacrificed?  Gotta stay healthy, right? As long as you’ve got something else to forgo, sure.  Paris in the morning, the sun rising over the Seine.  Sipping café au laitby a narrow window, exploring today, wherever my feet take me.  One day.  A glass of  Cabernet.  Maybe in a bistro, perhaps in the Village.  No rush to get back, we’ll catch a cab…What? You need another pair of boots?  But…what about the brown ones? Second-hand, sure, but good quality, no?  No.  Can I take you out for your birthday, my dear friend? And no, this time it’s not the diner with the 15% off coupon. And cake too!  No trembling in the car, careful with the brakes, easy, don’t grip the steering wheel, not that great, the tires, but it’s so expensive to replace them, surely they’ll hang on for another month, year, years…?  Pasta, rice, pasta, rice, pound per pound, what won’t break the bank? Oh, forgot, already broken, so what can be stretched –  for days and days and days – the most?  Will the extreme cold kill me? Will I wish it to?  Will the pipes resist? Will the blankets be warm enough for my dear ones? The vision is dim, ahead.  Actually can’t see a damn thing.  Just icicles.  Which scrape against my skin, threatening to puncture my eyes.  I love my red scarf, it feels soft against my neck and hides my thoughts from the piercing eyes of those who seek to uncover my secrets.  Life in the suburbs.  Good for all, no?  No.  A chamber of loneliness.  But it’s so crowded! A hand to hold, warm and steady.  Somebody to catch me.  One day. To believe again, in something, anything.  Anybody.  Your voice, heard.  Not drowned by the stronger ones, the loudest, the self-righteous.  Slowly rearranging your bones, your flesh, strengthening the desires and the hopes that you just stepped on.  Can one rise from ashes, or is it only the mythical phoenix?  The desert of life is dusty and there is no shade.  The oasis only a mirage of course.  Landing in Naples, where all is well this time, you collected all your luggage and there are smiles on their faces,mamma, babbo! – you’re okay now, we got you – and the sun is high in the sky and warms your soul even inside the gray airport.  Love is the only thing, it will feed you, no?  No. The music, yes, the music reaches my blood and bursts through my soul, loud and violent, sorrowful, tender, passion and death.  The stack of papers looms high by your computer.  But you just begin with the one on top.  Enough to take care of all of you, o messages of doom.  No problem, I got it now.  One day.  Maybe.


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